Everything To Be Thankful For

First, I apologize for the title. It looks like a train wreck with the infinitive stuck in the middle and the preposition razzing me at the end, but when said aloud it's far less offensive, as in: "I feel like we have everything to be thankful for". Or something like that.

I just read a news article about a woman in Denver, CO who spent last Thanksgiving unemployed in a motel room with her longtime partner because they'd just been evicted from their home. On Thanksgiving Day, the weight from the snow caved in part of the wall and they spent the day wet and miserable.

This year, both she and her man have new jobs and are enjoying a new townhouse. Rather than simply baste in her own success, the woman's gratitude moved her to reach out to others as down on their luck as she'd found herself last year and she posted an ad on Craigslist inviting them to share Thanksgiving with her. She and her partner ended up hosting Thanksgiving dinner for 32 complete strangers because once the responses arrived, there was no way she could turn any of them away.

What an awesome lady! It was such a beautiful story that it got me thinking about what all we have to be thankful for (see? it's a good, working phrase!). Here are a few things I came up with...

The color pink

Beans who can turn anything into a toy and their big brother Biscuit, who can capture moments like these while his mom changes a diaper.

Soft Blankets, Binkies and Buddies for when the Beans are sleepy.

Used cars (with doors, but hey, whatever floats her boat, right?).

An appreciation for "Dukes of Hazzard Style".

Bean-sized wild-animal prints and an abundance of baby wipes.

WINNING THE BIG GAME!!!!!!

Matching Thanksgiving dresses, Red Circus Box and Mimzi hugs.

Papa (DPSM) hugs and all of his.... original music ;)

Great-Grandma singing to Pipsi.

Turkey with gravy and Cheerios.

Great friends--

Who have great kids.

And completely tear-free visits to Santa.

Now that all the kids are healthy again, most of the laundry is caught up and nothing in the fridge smells like roadkill left in the Arkansas sun for too long (just give it a week, folks) I can take a moment to think about how much has happened since last Thanksgiving. As far as material possessions go, I don't think we have a greater number of things in our lives-- in fact it's rather the opposite. Last year we were still in the other house in another town, the Beans were still brand-new and we really didn't know what was going to happen or where we would be for Thanksgiving this year. And now I drive a van, am a slave to Happy Nappy schedules and share 1500 child-proofed square feet with four other people and a spazzy Border Collie.

But I can declare today without any equivocation whatsoever that I am so very thankful for each and every little bit of this life. Is it what I thought I saw when I looked into my five-year crystal ball in 2003 when Hubby, Biscuit and I spent out first Thanksgiving together? Not exactly. We never, ever anticipated twins. And I always thought that by the time Biscuit was the age he is now that my career would be charging full steam ahead, not laid aside for other things-- but those other things turned out to be the Beans and I wouldn't trade the fun, happy time I get to spend with them and Biscuit and Hubby for anything at all.

We don't have a great big impressive house. We don't have glamorous cars and I'll probably never get over my obsessive cheapness enough to spring for a tummy tuck. We don't take exotic vacations and Hubby and I may never take a real honeymoon. But even though we don't have all the requisite trappings of success, I still think that the sum of what we do have is everything to be thankful for (see? it totally works!).

Bugs-- Again.

The Beans are beginning to share. They're taking baby steps in this department but we'll count any little event slightly resembling sharing as a full-fledged step in the right direction. It's been, shall we say, an ordeal to have made it this far and there were moments when I doubted our arrival, but it happened, and it continues to improve. Sure there are still more moments when they hit each other, pull each other's hair and bite each other than there are moments of sublime sibling satisfaction but still, the little blissful moments I witness give me the hope that keeps me afloat on the black sea of daily discontent.

There have been three separate occasions over as many weeks when I've peeked in on quiet Beans (assuming that the absence of screaming means they're up to mischief) to find Parki reading to Pipsi. Something you have to know: Pipsi LOVES having someone read to her. She runs over to whomever is sitting or standing nearby, book and blankie clutched in her slobbery little paws, throwing herself at the person who has come to read to her. People are Kindles to Pipsi, living, breathing Kindles who will wrap her in a Blankie and read the same books over and over and over because she's too darn cute to turn down. Occasionally she's a little insistent and impatient. If you take too long to begin the book or take too long to turn the page, she will grab the book and whack you in the face / head / shoulder / chest with it. She doesn't mean to hurt-- she just wants to get on with the business at hand. And that business could take hours if we let it.

During the moments when I have to take care of other stuff around the house and the Beans are left to their own devices I've traditionally had about ten minutes to take care of something before the Beans entered Meltdown Mode. When that bit of time passes and I don't hear screaming, I feel something amiss. That's when I peek into their room or down the hall and there sit my little Beans together, Parki flipping the pages of a board book and reading, "Ngyahbluorsh, bah bah dodoshgyuryeeee" and pointing with her little finger at the pictures and words, and Pipsi following along, fully engaged in the story her sister is patiently reading to her.

It's the cutest thing ever. It's cuter than candy-covered ponies. It's cuter than the featured exhibit at the Museum of Cuteness. It's cuter than a basket of pink puppies.

And by the time I return with the camera the moment is over.

An experience we aren't through with yet, though, is the Beans' second cold. I know, I should be ashamed of myself for even thinking about complaining when the babies have only been sick one other time in their almost fifteen months here on Earth, but this is just not fun. On the upside, Mommy's had the chance to cuddle all night long with one Bean or the other. The downside of it is that I spend most of the night sitting up and covered in ropy green nasal discharge. But that's okay.

Even though it's a bummer to have all three kids sick at once I at least have the glimmer of hope that they're all capable of sharing. Even if at first it's only germs.

Puke Pies

There's a lovely garden in the back yard that blooms in the Spring with Calla lilies, roses and daffodils, a cherry tree and two orange trees whose blossoms are pleasing not only to the eye but also to the ol' sniffer. Walking out to Hubby's office is a fragrant treat during those early days of Spring (until I arrive and step inside to discover things... not as fresh if you get what I mean).

Anyway, as is the case with any garden all those pretty flowers have to grow in something (dirt) and when it rains petals fall from everywhere and mix with the rain and dirt and make super-gross mudpaste. Mud always reminds me of the photo my mom has tucked away somewhere of my brother and me making mud pies at the bottom of the rusty slide that used to live in the back yard at their house. But a few days ago something new happened that reminds me of mud pies-- or rather a tweaking of the traditional mud pies to suit the needs of a new generation.

With all the dirt and mud and concrete in the back yard and with the Beans still unsteady on their little feet I generally don't bring them outside together at the same time by myself so most of their days are spent indoors. Not only do I worry they'll fall on an upended brick or other bit of hazardous something, there's also the issue of the time required to remove mud stains from little pants and socks and shoes. At this point I really don't like the idea of making more work for myself but of course I do feel badly becasue sometimes I feel like I'm denying them a big childhood joy but then I remember that they just learned how to walk and Pipsi hates grass anyhow. But all that nonsense aside, never fear! They don't want for space to play and they're incredibly creative. For example, I was in the kitchen doing dishes (yay for me!) the other day and the Beans were in their bedroom and the hallway playing in their own kitchen. We keep the door to their room open and they have the run of that and the hallway and they prefer it to being stuck in the Playground because at least they can see the real kitchen from the hall and can come over and say hi or complain or throw stuff over onto the other side and scream until someone (Mommy) comes over and gets it for them and by the way, wouldn't I mind picking them up while I'm at it and reading them a story please?

But as usual I digress. Finished with the dishes, I turned off the water and heard... nothing. I waited a second then heard a wet "slap, slap, slap" and Pipsi giggling. Then quick little footsteps and Parki appeared at the gate. And another wet "slap, slap, slap" followed by giggles from the hallway. Pipsi was up to something which had her very pleased with herself, and Parki wanted nothing to do with it. This was not going to be good. I quickly dried my hands and trotted over to the gate to see what was going on.

"What are you doing Pippers?"

Pipsi looked up at me, beaming with delight.

"Ngyuh! Ngyuh! Ngyuh!" Pipsi shouted, and she turned her blue gaze back down to the floor in front of her. As I stepped over the gate I took in with big, round eyes, the sight of my little blonde-haired beauty sitting on the laminate-floored hallway raising her hands high over her head and bringing them down fast and hard with a loud goopy splat right into a puddle of grossness that was unmistakably puke. She proceeded to gleefully smear it all over the floor before her like it was a big fingerpainting masterpiece, then she rose back into a sitting position, examining her hands with a big, open-mouthed-tongue-lolling smile and, looking back up at me, wiped those slick, slippery, squicky hands all over her shirt and pants.

Awesome. Puke Pies!

You know how mystifying it feels to spill a small glass of whatever onto the counter and even though it was only an ounce or two it just goes everywhere? It sloshes off the counter and drips down the cabinets and puddles on the floor where, if someone (Hubby, Biscuit) isn't paying attention he steps in it and tracks it all over the kitchen before he realizes you're talking to him and he has it on his shoe and he needs to stop for a second and wipe it off because it was just a little liquid in a glass that's now suddenly all over the kitchen?!?!? Well, just in case you didn't know, Beanpuke works that way too.

I no longer worry that they're missing out not getting to go outside and mess around out there because they get to experience pretty much everything in here that they'd get out there-- all the same toys, the animals (Katie), the bugs, and the mud pies without the melanoma risk. By next Spring they'll have outgrown the "early walking" stage and will be fully able to enjoy the outdoors with a significantly lower risk of Howling Fantods from Mommy. Until then they'll obviously be happy making do with substitutions. Splat splat splat!

Let's Pretend

Let's pretend, just you and me, that it hasn't really been this long between posts, 'K?

Halloween and Biscuit's birthday have passed by in a flash and along with the passage of those two events, the space-time continuum in which I and my family exist has sped beyond warp speed just like it does every year. And just as in years past, time this year passes faster than it did last.

Sigh.

What to say about Halloween? We went to a friend's party, bringing along Indiana Jones who was adored all evening by Raggedy Ann,

a ladybug who has yet to meet a stranger

and a butterfly who was content on Daddy's hip for most of the night.

The anniversary marking the beginning of Biscuit's fourteenth year alive on Earth was quite the rite of gas passage. He had a friend over for birthday dinner consisting not of pizza as one would expect but rather of braised Moroccan- spiced rack of lamb avec tous les accoutrements. Yes, I thought it showed a hopeful sign of sophistication too. Biscuit says this is his favorite thing in the universe to eat and I was happy to oblige. About halfway through dinner someone lost control of his sphincter muscles and after that all gas hell broke loose at the table between Biscuit, his Buddy and Hubby. I've never been so happy to take the last bite of that delicious dish as I was that evening. Furthermore, I was repeatedly and colorfully reminded that guys always find farts funny no matter how many birthdays they've had.

Biscuit says, "Thanks, Gran!"

I've spent much more time in the garage over the past several weeks as a result of all the bright, beautiful light that's out there now. Thank you Hubby. But now I see how dirtyfilthygross it is out there. On the bright side (I'm sorry! I can't help it!!!) at least I can see what's been incubating out there for the past few months and I'm not sitting inside in the dark (groan) helplessly worrying about it.

On to the messes inside now...

Do you want to know the worst term I've heard this year? The phrase that catapulted me so quickly toward the Howling Fantods Zone that I actually shot past it straight onto the Isle of Denial? Here's how the phone conversation went:

"I only saw one and that was a day ago and I haven't seen any since so I don't really know if we have a problem or not."

"Yeah, you have an infestation. If you see one you have pro'ly a million eggs."

Oh.

MY!

GOD!!!!!!

Infestation?!?!?!?!?!

One little flea completely upended my whole entire house for the better part of a week. Not sharing John Donne's affinity for the petite parasites I couldn't sleep for fear that every single one of those million eggs would all hatch simultaneously while I slept, covering my kids in their slumber and eating them alive, leaving me to find nothing but bones, saturated diapers and a bit of bodily flotsam and jetsam in the morning.

The benefit is that the house is now CLEAN. Cleaner even than it was when we moved in. As clean as it would be if we were moving out and then we'd take a look around and say, "Man, why don't we keep it this clean all the time?" I'll tell you why. Because it's a gigantic pain in my ass. That's why.

Katie got a bath and a visit to the vet who said that she saw no signs of bugs on our beloved baby. She was scratching all the time and we were applying Frontline so we were at a loss as to where the flea came from until the following weekend.

Hubby and I were on the couch enjoying the last few bites of brunch since the Beans had gone down a little early for Happy Nappy (no, not lucky us-- they also woke up early but that's another post entitled "The Early Bean Gets The Binkie And Smacks Her Twin In The Head With It Because She's Very Very Cranky"). We thought we were so awesome! The house was clean, the kids were napping, we were actually eating a hot meal together in our jammies-- and then one of looked out the window into the screened-in patio adjacent to the family room. I think it was me but I can't be sure because, again, I was suddenly watching the Howling Fantods Zone fly past beneath me on my way back to the Isle of Denial and thinking that I've spent WAY TOO MUCH TIME THERE lately.

It was a rat. Not a mouse. Not a cute little pink-and-white rat like the one that was Mrs. Lanto's sixth-grade class pet named Mozart who used to poop in my desk until I figured out that I should put him in my friends' desks and let him poop on their papers / pencils / fancy erasers. Nope. We're talking about a fat, nasty, mottled-brown, disgusting, scrounging, honest-to-god-quick-grab-a-broom-and-pound-the-hell-out-of-it rat.

So Hubby, fearles defender that he is, put on his Braveheart and his shoes, grabbed the broom and ventured out to the patio. My job was to keep an eye on it. I watched it, hands clamped over my ears, fingers curling up in my hair, humming tunelessly (because the stock soundtrack on the way to the Howling Fantods Zone isn't nearly as pleasing as you might think). I pulled my eyes from the object sentenced to imminent destruction by broom to take one last look at Hubby should he return on rather than with his shield and when I glanced back, the rat had disappeared.

Poof! Gone! Just like that.

Hubby rooted around in the patio for a couple of minutes, cautiously yet viciously poking the broom handle here and there, but the fat-bellied beast was nowhere to be found. And it's funny. Hubby asked me a couple of days into my frenzied cleaning-and-disinfecting spree whether I was sure that I'd seen a flea. Aside from the fact that that was the absolute wrongest question in the world that he could have uttered at that moment (better ones immediately sprung to mind right at that second like, "How can I help you?" or "Do you need a hand with that?" or "Why don't you let me move that big heavy object for you?" or "How about if I take over this massive project for an hour so you can shower and eat because it would be so inconsiderate of me to just sit here and watch tv and let the kids cry while you stink and starve?" or "Is this something we can do together since I want out home to be as clean as you do?"), one thing I hope Hubby ALWAYS knows and trusts about me is that I never, ever cry wolf. I will concede the point that I am far more likely to assume and prepare for the worst-case scenario as far as the kids' health and safety is concerned than I am to just hang onto my pants and hope for the best, but these were FLEAS we were talking about-- bugs that wanted to suck our babies' blood in the dead of night and then go make more fleas to suck more blood. Third-world insects. And the guy on the phone had said "INFESTATION!"

So yes, I was sure it was a flea. Have I seen more? No. Do I regret moving furniture, washing clothes and linens nonstop, vaccuuming, scouring, disinfecting, and sanitizing for the better part of a week? No! Would I have rather been doing other things? Duh, YES! Do I lament the fact that I was the only adult in the house doing so? Of course, but I was also the only one to see the flea on Pipsi's face and (fortunately) the only one who felt the little itchy pinch of its bite. And now, I am also the one with peace of mind that I've done EVERYTHING POSSIBLE to rid the house of the vile bugs and I know that if they return it isn't because of anything I did or didn't do.

Am I sure I saw a flea? YES! And there's the culprit right there! Or at least, there he was. I don't know what happened to him (the rat, not Hubby). But I've called the exterminators again to come on out and get this guy (again the rat, not Hubby-- but it isn't yet noon).

In the meantime, I've seriously contemplated pretending that the entire thing never happened. But forgetting about that would mean that I'd forget all the issues we were facing while still managing to throw Biscuit a super-fun birthday party and enjoying a fun Halloween with all the kids. So I won't. When necessary I'll just scoot on back to the Isle of Denial, pour a couple of Pina Coladas and prepare a couple of chairs for the next time one of us sees something in the house that doesn't belong.